The Reichenbach Fall - The Book
by wizyw
Summary: "Why today?" The rain was tapping silently on the window, only an occasional thunder disrupted its even beat. The room was dark and cold, but it was the unexpected question that made John shudder. He raised his head. Deep pain and regret reflected in his eyes. "Do you want to hear me say it?"... The events of the last episode written out in book format from John's perspective.
1. Prologue

As I was watching The Reichenbach Fall for the hundredth time, I caught myself wondering how it would work as a book. As I couldn't escape from this thought, I decided to sit down and write out the whole thing in book format from John's perspective. Everything is taken 100% from the series, I didn't add anything... Okay, that's not true, so let me rephrase it: I didn't write any additional dialogues, only a few new scenes that had to be worked into the storyline to make it more real and detailed. However, I tried to keep these at a minimum.

I really hope you enjoy it! I will add the chapters as I write them.

Many thanks for everyone who supported this crazy task and a special thanks for Ariane DeVere and her amazing transcripts!

Reviews are highly appreciated ;)

xx

* * *

"Why today?"

The rain was tapping silently on the window, only an occasional thunder disrupted its even beat. The room was dark and cold, but it was the unexpected question that made John shudder. He raised his head. Deep pain and regret reflected in his eyes.

"Do you want to hear me say it?"

"Eighteen months since our last appointment," said the woman sitting opposite him, clearly avoiding the question.

John felt a dull throb of anger in his stomach.

"Do you read the papers?"

"Sometimes."

"And you watch telly?"

She didn't respond.

"You _know_ why I'm here." John's voice was thick with emotions. "I'm here because…"

He unconsciously raised his hand to his mouth as his voice cracked. Anguish shadowed his hard features and his eyes fell back to the floor in silence.

His therapist, Ella leaned forward in her armchair and folded her hands.

"What happened, John?"

John felt like his whole inside was trembling violently. He was drained and exhausted, his heart raced in his chest. He wanted to stop existing in this world and disappear into the shadows, but for some reason he was still there. Against his will, the words slowly started to take form in his mind, but even as a thought it was too painful to bear. Long seconds had passed before he finally managed to open his mouth.

"Sher…"

He couldn't say it. He simply couldn't. If he said it, it would become real. There would be no going back. Tears were forcing their way up in his throat and he had to purse his lips to stop them from quivering. He closed his eyes and took several deep breaths as he tried to pull himself together.

"You need to get it out," he heard Ella's soothing voice.

John opened his eyes and nodded. He knew she was right. No matter how much it hurt, he had to accept the reality.

He swallowed hard and tried to blink away the gathering tears in his eyes. When he spoke, his voice was barely more than a whisper.

"My best friend… Sherlock Holmes…"

He broke off and for a second he truly doubted his ability to finish the sentence, but with a terrible effort he forced the dreadful words onto his lips.

"…is dead."

The agony of the truth swept over him with renewed force. _Sherlock was dead._

John's face twisted in pain and he started to cry.


	2. Three months before

– THREE MONTHS BEFORE –

John looked around with a polite smile on his face, but as the cameras started flashing into his eyes, he winced imperceptibly. He wasn't particularily fond of all the attention they were getting, but they had no choice: they had to try and make the best of it. It wasn't easy to get Sherlock to see reason, but John knew perfectly well how important it was to make a good impression on the press. He'd seen them turn on celebrities far too many times to have no intention of being on the receiving end. So he gritted his teeth and smiled.

As he looked at the crowd surrounding them, he could hardly believe that this whole charade had started only a few weeks before. John had barely got a chance to recover from the trip they'd taken to Baskerville when a panting and dishevelled Lestrade had appeared on their doorstep. They'd only had to take one look at him to see that he was truly desperate. As soon as he'd finished his first sentence, John had immediately understood why he was in such a miserable state: a painting worth of £1.7million had been stolen from the Tate Gallery overnight. The police had done everything in their power to retrieve the masterpiece, but all their investigations had lead to a dead end. They were absolutely clueless, and that was the moment when Lestrade had given in and decided to ask for their help.

John was on the case at once, but it'd took some nudging and pressing to get Sherlock started. He didn't find the problem challenging enough (or, as he'd put it without even glancing up from his paper, "_Dull._"), and he would've had turned his back to Lestrade's pleading had it not been for John and his persistence. Once Sherlock's mind was set in motion, however, it couldn't have had been stopped, and it'd taken him only three days to find and return „The Falls of the Reichenbach" in one piece. John and Sherlock were prepared to leave the scene of the crime by the back door as usual, leaving Lestrade to bask in the glory of the achievement, but they'd soon found that all their efforts were useless. Due to the value of the painting and the prestige of the case, they'd become too important to be left out, and Sherlock and John had become incredibly famous in the blink of an eye. They'd been congratulated in front of cameras, they'd been interviewed, and their faces had appeared on the news and in the papers. Suddenly, everybody knew who they were. Of course, they weren't exactly unknown to begin with: an awful lot of people had still read John's blog faithfully (although there was no way of knowing exactly how many because the counter was still stuck on 1895), and most of the public had already heard about Sherlock – or at least they were familiar with the famous picture of him sporting that very unfashionable deerstalker. After their success, and to Sherlock's utter delight, the media had decided that "Hat-man and Robin" were old news now, and they'd finally dropped the hated picture along with the nicknames. Sherlock couldn't rejoice for long, though, because the next day the whole nation had welcomed the glorious rise of "The Reichenbach Hero". The nickname had caught on like wildfire. Needless to say, Sherlock had hated his newfound title, but John didn't say anything: he was secretly very relieved that the media didn't care about him enough to reward him with one.

In the next few days Sherlock and John had absolutely no time to rest. The number of civilians asking for their help had skyrocketed, and even Lestrade'd seemed to be more willing to involve them in the investigations. Although Sherlock didn't do any favours for the reputation of the police force, he had certainly helped them save a lot of lives over the years, so they really couldn't complain. The public couldn't even get bored of seeing them in the telly when an acclaimed High Street banker had been kidnapped from his home, and this time Lestrade didn't hesitate a second to call them in. Sure, bankers weren't the public's most favourite people, but they were people nonetheless; and during the next seven days the case had got such a focused attention from the media that by the end of the week the whole nation had been waiting for the outcome, holding their breaths. On the seventh day Sherlock had finally managed to "mastermind the daring escape of the kidnapped man" (as it could've been read in one of the papers) and the man could return to his wife and ten-year-old son safe and sound. The coverage of the heart-warming reunion was ridiculously enormous. Suddenly, everybody adored the Reichenbach Hero – not only because of his brains and accomplishments, but also because he constantly made the police look like a bunch of incompetent schoolgirls.

And now, only four days later they were standing in the spotlight – again.

John shifted his weight to his other foot and sighed. From the corner of his eye he saw that Sherlock was fidgeting impatiently next to him. His friend's face was inexpressive and he held his ground with his head held high, but John knew that he hated every single second of it. He deeply despised the reporters, the cameramen, and the photographers – almost every single human being in the room, come to think of it. As John was looking at him, he felt the warm sensation of pride swelling inside his chest. It wasn't easy to convince Sherlock to attend these events at all. On some level it was amusing to see how that brilliant and complex mind of his struggled trying to comprehend the importance of these public appearances. But somehow John had always triumphed over him: in the end Sherlock turned up, made some snappy remarks about the gift he was given as a token for his achievements, then shook hands with important people and stood still for the photos. It wasn't much, but it was more than what John hoped for.

They were standing at the front of the large room, on display for everyone to see. A drape was hanging behind them with the Royal Cypher of the Queen, encircled by the word "police" above and below: the official logo of the Central London Police Force. John was quite sure that it hadn't been there before – they must've installed it specifically for the sake of the cameras. The journalists were sitting in rows in front of them, the cameramen were filming in the back. The shutters were half drawn on the glass doors and windows that seperated them from the adjoining offices. John turned his head as he looked at the one-man podium next to Sherlock. The press conference was lead by Scotland Yard's very own Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade.

"Peter Ricoletti," he said into the microphone as a picture of said man appeared on a huge screen behind him. Some journalists were writing, some were holding out their dictaphones. "Number one on Interpol's Most Wanted list since 1982. But we got him! And there's one person we have to thank for giving us the decisive leads... with all his customary diplomacy and tact."

The crowd sniggered. John slightly turned his head towards Sherlock, keeping his eyes on the cameras.

"Sarcasm," he whispered.

Sherlock raised an eyebrow in amusement.

"Yes."

The crowd broke into applause as Lestrade stepped down from the podium. He walked over to Sherlock and handed him something in blue wrapping paper.

"We all chipped in," he grinned suspiciously. John glanced across the room and saw Sergeant Donovan and Anderson giggling by the doorway. Oh-oh. This couldn't be good.

Sherlock ripped open the wrapping paper and pulled out the gift in a swift motion. As he realised what he was holding, he became absolutely speechless and a whole range of emotions flickered across his face. He reminded John of someone who got an outrageously disappointing Christmas gift from his grandma but didn't want to hurt her feelings by showing his distaste. Sherlock attemped to cover up his initial shock and disgust by turning it into a pleasantly surprised smile, but it didn't really work. John himself was trying very hard to keep a straight face for his friend's sake. The crowd was cheering and laughing.

Sherlock was holding a grey deerstalker hat.

At last, John thought; Hat-man was officially back.

"Put it on!" the reporters cried immediately.

"Yeah, Sherlock, put it on!" Lestrade chimed in with a grin.

"Come on!"

Sherlock stood rooted to the spot. Even the fake smile had melted off his face. John could almost see his friend's blood pressure rising, so he quietly cleared his throat.

"Just get it over with," he whispered. Sherlock seemed to have swallowed his fury and pride as he shoved the crumpled wrapping paper into John's hands without a word and put on the hat. When he looked up, the audience went mad. Even John couldn't stifle his grin anymore. Sherlock glanced at him and John saw the promise of murder in his dangerously flashing eyes, but he simply couldn't help himself. He looked absolutely ridiculous. John saw Donovan laughing and clapping delightfully in the corner and Anderson smirking silently next to her. Sherlock turned his head back towards the crowd, and as the cameras started flashing again, his mouth twitched into an agonized smile.

Later John had to pay dearly for sniggering at Sherlock's humiliation, as he spent the remaining hours locked together with his fuming flatmate at 221B Baker Street. Sherlock barely passed as good company on a better day, but when he was in one of his moods, he was downright insufferable. By the time John had finally went to bed, he was absolutely knackered – the task of keeping Sherlock at bay had drained all the energy out of him. He could close the day on a positive note, though, as everybody who had attended the press conference managed to escape the wrath of Sherlock and lived to see another day. John decided to call that a result.

It seemed Sherlock's anger had subsided by the following morning. Everything was quiet and peaceful. John was sitting on the sofa with a cup of tea by his side, reading the morning paper and enjoying the silence. Of course, it didn't last long – it never did. Sherlock stormed into the room and threw a newspaper on the table in front of John.

"'Boffin'!" he grunted indignantly. "'Boffin Sherlock Holmes'!"

John leaned forward, put down the paper he was reading and picked up the other one.

"Everybody gets one," he said as he looked at the front cover. The huge letters "BOFFIN SHERLOCK SOLVES ANOTHER" covered almost the entire page, but the editors somehow still managed to make place for Sherlock in his deerstalker.

"One what?" asked Sherlock as he paced up and down the room. His blue silken dressing gown was flowing in his steps.

"Tabloid nickname," John answered. "'SuBo', 'Nasty Nick'… Shouldn't worry – I'll probably get one soon."

"Page five, column six, first sentence," Sherlock replied at once. That was all that John needed: he opened the paper immediately and started to swift through the main article, looking for the sentence in question. Meanwhile, Sherlock had picked up his deerstalker from the fireplace and was looking at it with undisguised contempt.

"Why is it always the hat photograph?!" he burst out furiously and punched a hole in it with his right fist. John didn't listen to him; he was already deeply engrossed in the article. He counted out the sentences, then suddenly stopped as his finger reached the relevant line. He blinked.

"…'_Bachelor_ John Watson'?"

"What sort of a hat is it, anyway?" John heard Sherlock's question clearly but he let it slide. He had bigger problems now.

"'Bachelor'? What the hell are they implying?!"

Meanwhile Sherlock had brought the hat closer to his eyes and started twisting it back and forth, seemingly unable to comprehend its special properties.

"Is it a cap? Why has it got two fronts?"

John raised his eyes at him briefly.

"It's a deerstalker," he said, then returned to the article. He couldn't get his head around it. "'Frequently seen in the company of bachelor John Watson…'"

"You stalk a deer with a hat?" wondered Sherlock incredulously and started to feel the hat's weight in his hand. "What are you gonna do… throw it?"

"'…c_onfirmed_ bachelor John Watson'!"

"Some sort of death frisbee?"

John finally straightened up, and resting his elbows on his knees he folded his hands in a business-like manner.

"Okay, this is too much. We need to be more careful," he said. He looked up at Sherlock grimly, and he had to use all of his patience to not go over and slap him. While he was just having a dawning realisation that would have a great significance and impact on their lives, his friend was childishly pretending to throw the hat out of the window. John suspected the only reason he didn't really do it because the window was closed.

Sherlock suddenly narrowed his eyes.

"It's got flaps. Ear flaps… It's an ear hat, John!"

He threw the hat towards John angrily but with unerring aim, and it fell precisely in his hands. The moment when Sherlock had released the object it seemed like a curse had been lifted and John's words had finally made it through to him. He looked at John and when he saw his dead serious expression, he frowned.

"What do you mean, more careful?"

"I mean this isn't a deerstalker now," John replied as he held up the hat. "It's a _Sherlock Holmes hat_. I mean that you're not exactly a _private_ detective anymore." He slammed the hat onto the table and held up his thumb and forefinger an inch apart. "You're _this _far from famous!"

Sherlock sighed with an air of indifference and slumped down into his armchair.

"Oh, it'll pass," he said nonchalantly and put his hands together in front of his mouth in their usual prayer position.

John shot him a stern look. Sherlock might've been the most brilliant man on the planet, but in some regards he was still unbelievably thick.

"It'd better pass," he said and pointed a warning finger at Sherlock. "The press _will_ turn, Sherlock. They always turn, and they'll turn on _you._"

Sherlock dropped his hands down in exasperation and locked eyes with John.

"It really bothers you," he said after a short pause.

"What?"

"What people say."

"Yes."

"About me? I don't understand. Why would it upset _you_?"

John had looked into his friend's searching eyes for a few seconds before he decided against a reply. Sherlock wouldn't have understood it anyway; he would've just mocked or insulted him about it. _Sentiments._ John broke his gaze, shuffled in his seat uncomfortably and cleared his throat.

"Just try to keep a low profile. Find yourself a little case this week. Stay out of the news."

John picked up the newspaper from the table, leaned back on the sofa and pretended to read. He'd felt Sherlock's eyes lingering on him for a second before they finally turned away.

Neither of them had any idea that this was only the beginning.

It was a mindboggingly boring day when it happened. John'd just finished having a morning shower and Sherlock was sitting by the kitchen table, peering into his microscope in silence. As John stepped out of the bathroom, drying his hair with a towel, he heard a short, familiar noise coming from the living-room.

"It's your phone," he said to Sherlock as he passed him. Sherlock didn't even look up as he answered.

"Hmm, it keeps doing that."

John walked across the living-room in his bathrobe, passed the man hanging by the neck from the ceiling without even batting an eyelid, and sat down in his armchair.

"So…" he said as he picked up a newspaper and opened it, "did you just talk to him for a really long time?"

The hanged mannequin was swaying peacefully in the middle of the room.

"Oh, Henry Fishgard never committed suicide", said Sherlock and sighed resignedly. "Bow Street Runners… missed everything."

John heard Sherlock snapping a book shut and tossing it on top of the others that were piling on the kitchen table.

"Pressing case, is it?" John asked.

"They're all pressing till they're solved."

Sherlock's phone chimed again. John looked up from his paper. He waited a second, just in case, but he knew all too well that if it were up to Sherlock, that text would be likely to remain unread for days. Even for weeks. He couldn't care less if the Queen herself had sent him a message. John briefly struggled with himself but in the end he folded the paper and put it down with a frustrated sigh. He had already come to terms with his roles and duties as Sherlock's friend, so he might as well act accordingly.

"I'll get it, shall I?"

He got up, walked to the table by the window and picked up the phone. As he glanced at the screen, the frustration melted off his face immediately and a dark shadow took its place. Grabbing the phone he walked into the kitchen and held it out to Sherlock.

"Here."

Sherlock was still deeply immersed in examining the slide under the microscope, turning the small focusing knob on its side delicately between his fingers.

"I'm busy."

"Sherlock…"

"Not now!"

"He's back."

Sherlock finally raised his head and took a long look at John, then at the phone sitting in his outstretched palm. The tension was palpable in the room. John saw the mixture of thrill and uneasiness in Sherlock's eyes as he slowly straightened up and reclined in his chair. He reached out and took the device from John's hand.

The first message was nothing more than a single picture. The close-up photo showed an ordinary tourist sign, with the white words "CROWN JEWELS" shining brightly against the deep blue plaque. Underneath the letters an arrow pointed to the right, indicating the direction of the attraction.

The next message consisted of only seven little words.

"_Come and play._

_Tower Hill._

_Jim Moriarty x."_


	3. The Crown Jewels

John looked at Sherlock closely, trying to see what kind of effect the mysterious messages had had on him. His flatmate's face, however, was unreadable. He took a couple of seconds before he quietly told John to get ready. He didn't look at him and he didn't say anything else. John had learnt over the time spent together that it was better to listen to him. So he got dressed hastily, dried away the remaining drops of water from his hair, and when he was done, he stepped into the living-room. Sherlock was standing in front of the fireplace with his coat and scarf already on. He was visibly waiting for something. John was too excited to sit down so he just leaned against the door post and joined Sherlock in his wait. A few minutes had passed before Sherlock's phone broke the pregnant silence. He picked it up and from his short, pointed questions and answers it became evident that Lestrade was on the other end. When Sherlock hung up and put the phone back into his inside breast pocket, he didn't say much, only that they were needed immediately and that a police car would be there to pick them up in a minute.

They must've had broken some record because they got to the Tower of London under fifteen minutes. They were escorted into one of the surveillance rooms where Lestrade had already been waiting for them. John thought he'd seen him desperate before, but he was wrong. He seemed like he'd aged ten years in the last hour. Lestrade didn't waste any time and quickly brought them up to date.

That day between 11:01 and 11:05, merely ten minutes after John and Sherlock had got the text messages, Moriarty had managed to hack into the security systems of three of the most highly secured places in England: the Tower of London, the Bank of England, and Pentonville Prison. Three different places, scattered across London, miles and miles away from each other; and still, Moriarty broke into all three of them… _with a single mobile phone._ _Under four minutes_. He shut down the security in the Tower and tried to steal the Crown Jewels; he opened the Bank's gold bullion vault that's housing approximately 4.600 tonnes of gold; and then, to cap it all off, he got into the system of Pentonville and opened the prisoners' cells, letting the murderers and psychopaths and rapists roam freely in the building. Even though the crisis was quickly averted at all three places (the Tower's system was running again, the vault was closed and the prisoners were back in their cells) and Moriarty was caught and behind bars, it was still highly serious matter. The country's very best were already put on the case, along with the Boys of Baker Street. John felt dizzy from all the information and he felt more technologically impaired than ever. He would've been the first to admit that he didn't understand computers very much – sometimes he even had problems with the chip and PIN machines at the checkouts –, and this was way over his head. He had no idea if it was possible to do all this with a single phone, but if Sherlock was willing to accept it, then he would, too.

John, Sherlock and Lestrade all gathered around a computer. Lestrade put the security tape in and together they looked at the screen.

For a while they saw nothing but the ordinary influx of tourists outside the White Tower. People walking around, pointing at things, posing for pictures. Then a man walked into shot and stopped in the middle of the picture. He wore simple clothes: jeans, trainers, a jacket, and a baseball cap with the word "LONDON" and the Union Flag printed on it. He looked around, chewing a gum nonchalantly, and took some pictures with his phone. Just another typical tourist – John would've probably walked right past him on the street. Nobody looked at him twice.

Moriarty chose the perfect disguise.

The pictures of the cameras had been edited together so they could follow his every step. Moriarty took a photo of something in the distance, then he just stood there for a minute, his thumb moving swiftly on the touchscreen. They were watching the moment he'd sent the two taunting messages to Sherlock.

When he finished, Moriarty mingled with the crowd and made his way into the Tower. The picture changed to another camera's footage, and they saw him waiting in line patiently at the entrance. A few minutes had passed before he got to the security gate. He walked through the metal detectors calmly, but he got ordered back by security as the detector's lights started flashing. The surveillance camera didn't record sound so John had no idea what the security man told him, but Moriarty took some steps back, grinning awkwardly. Then he took something out of his jacket pocket, put it in the plastic tray before the security officer, and passed between the metal rods again; this time successfully. The guard gave his possession back to him, and as he put it in his pocket John caught a short glimpse of his mobile and a pair of earphones.

The picture changed again and they saw Moriarty entering the Jewel House. He came to a halt. The room was empty save a couple of tourists and a huge glass case in the middle. The tape was black and white, but John could easily imagine the lively colours. A beautiful, golden throne was standing on display. On its seat sat a red velvet pillow which held the Imperial State Crown in all its majesty, on top of the neatly folded Coronation Mantle. On the left armrest, the Sovereign's Orb glistened in the artificial light, while the Sovereign's Sceptre with the Cross was laid across the seat, resting on the right arm. Four of the country's most invaluable possessions were only at arm's length from the most dangerous criminal in England. John knew that the security in the Jewel House was state-of-the-art and the thick safety glass separating Moriarty from the Jewels was absolutely unbreakable, yet he still felt the cold running down his spine.

The tourists were looking and pointing at the encased Jewels, surrounding it, not bothering the least with the man in the baseball cap. Moriarty reached into his pocket, pulled out his earphones and plugged them in his ear. He cracked his neck as if he was preparing himself for something. He took out his phone and tapped its screen. John saw him closing his eyes blissfully and slightly raising his arms by his side, entirely taken over by the music in his ears. Lestrade told them that they had confiscated the phone and he had already taken a brief look at its contents. According to his playlist, at that moment he was listening to Rossini's "The Thieving Magpie". Perfect choice for the occasion. Moriarty opened his eyes, moistened his lips and touched the phone's screen again.

The crowd around him went wild immediately. They were panicking, looking around with scared faces and running for the exits. John assumed that the alarm had gone off. A security officer appeared out of nowhere and rushed everybody out of the room, and soon Moriarty was the only man still there. The guard ran up to him and tapped him on his shoulder – he probably thought he couldn't hear the alarm because of the earphones. Moriarty turned around, held up his hand and sprayed something in the face of the security guard, who instantly collapsed to the floor unconscious. John saw the heavy metal doors sealing themselves automatically in the background, encasing the man in the small room. He had no way of escaping, since in case of emergency the doors could've only been opened from the outside. He was trapped.

But Jim Moriarty looked around and his mouth curved into a smile.

He looked like he was exactly where he wanted to be.

Moriarty took down his cap and dropped it to the floor, along with the mysterious spray. His fingers ran through his hair, like he was making sure it still looked perfect. Then he looked at his phone and tapped its screen once more.

According to Lestrade's narrative, this was the moment he broke into the Bank of England.

Moriarty put the phone back into his pocket and pulled out something else. He stepped closer to the display. John quickly realised what was in his hand as Moriarty popped down its cap and started to write on the glass with the white marker. He was working from right to left; it seemed he was perfectly aware that the security camera was taping him from the other end of the chamber. The words would've been mirrored to anyone coming into the room through the main entrance, but to John, Lestrade and Sherlock they were crystal clear. Moriarty was writing specifically for them.

Soon the two words covered the entire glass.

"GET SHERLOCK"

John looked at Sherlock anxiously. He hadn't said a word since the video started. Sherlock screwed up his eyes as he followed Moriarty's every movement without blinking. John looked back at the screen and saw that Moriarty had finished writing by putting a smiley face in the letter "O". The sight instantly triggered something inside of him: it was the spitting image of the smiley Sherlock had drawn on their living-room wall with yellow spraypaint. John's mind slowly managed to make a connection and he remembered something that he had somehow forgotten in the last few weeks.

Moriarty had been to their flat.

John didn't really know how he could've forgotten it. It all happened during their trip to Baskerville. Moriarty had snuck into their home with a video camera, and recorded himself as he walked around the flat, examining and commenting on everything. John and Sherlock knew this because when they got home, they found that the video had already been uploaded to John's blog under the title "Hello Boys!". At first, John was outraged that someone had broken into their flat, but as he realised it was Moriarty, he started to worry for their own safety instead. Sherlock, on the other hand, was deadly calm, and he had reassured John that if Moriarty had wanted them dead, they would've had been killed already. It didn't put John's mind at ease, but since the days had gone by uneventfully, he had slowly forgotten about the incident.

And now the same smiley face had appeared in front of the Crown Jewels. There was no way of telling whether Moriarty was deliberately mocking Sherlock, or it was his own way of expressing himself, but John found himself silently hoping it was the first one. Because if it was the latter, the saying "great minds think alike" got a whole new, terrifying meaning.

Moriarty put away the pen and tapped his phone's screen again. He just hacked into the security of Pentonville Prison, John thought to himself incredulously. Just like that. Pentonville was a Category B/C prison, full of dangerous criminals, therefore it was essential that its security be basically impenetrable… and Moriarty got in and opened the cells from almost five miles away with frightening ease.

Then Moriarty put his hand to his mouth and started to pull on his chewing gum while still holding a piece of it between his teeth. The long, sticky substance stretched and stretched until it reached the surface of the glass. John was absolutely lost. What the hell was he doing? Moriarty let go of the gum and stuck the whole thing onto the glass, then he reached into his pocket and pulled out a small case. It looked like a sort of ring box. He popped it open and took out something so small that John couldn't even see it between his fingertips. With slow and precise movements, Moriarty stuck the mysterious thing into the gum. What was it…?

Apparently, Lestrade was thinking the same thing.

"That glass is tougher than anything," he wondered aloud.

Sherlock answered almost without thinking; clearly, he had already worked it out some time ago.

"Not tougher than crystallised carbon. He used a diamond."

Of course. _A diamond._ John had to admit that the solution was not only brilliant, but elegant, as well.

On the screen, Moriarty turned around and slipped out of his jacket, revealing his simple white T-shirt underneath. The fabric fell to the floor by his feet. He raised his arms above his head, like an acrobat or a ballet dancer after a performance, waiting for an applause. John gritted his teeth: Moriarty put up a show specifically for_ them_.

He pulled a pair of black gloves out of his pockets and put them on, dancing slowly towards the other end of the room to the music in his ears. As he got to the door, he bent down and picked up the fire extinguisher by the wall. He easily adjusted it in his hands so it would point its bottom end towards the glass case, and he held it up by his side like a battering ram, ready to strike. He turned back towards the glass, held his head high, and with elegant, rhythmic steps he danced his way across the room, gathering speed and momentum until he got to the display. Then he suddenly stopped, pulled back the fire extinguisher, and with all his strength he rammed it against the piece of chewing gum.

The extinguisher went through the glass like a knife through hot butter. At the moment of the impact, the glass lost its solid, transparent look, and the whole thing shook. An intricate network of long, thin cracks ran across the entire surface like capillaries. Moriarty pulled the extinguisher out of the gaping hole and gave it another go. It was a child's play. The glass shattered without any resistance, and the white, mirrored letters disappeared forever.

The defenceless Crown Jewels sat invitingly in the open air.

To John's surprise and disbelief, Moriarty didn't even try to make a move towards the Jewels. Instead, he turned his back to them, calmly walked back to door and put the fire extinguisher neatly back where he'd found it. Then he danced back to the case while pulling down his gloves and putting them away. He came to a halt in front of the shattered glass. John knew that the police was going arrive any second now, and Moriarty had to know it, too. John had no idea what he was aiming at. He was trapped, he couldn't go anywhere. He had no way of stealing the Jewels, even if he had managed to break down the glass.

Moriarty stepped over the glass shards and got into the case. He took a long, satisfied look at the sight before him, then he picked up the Crown, very carefully, and put it on his head. Then he grabbed the blue, ermine trimmed robe and pulled it around himself. He removed the velvet pillow from the seat, and he moved the Sceptre slightly aside. There was nothing blocking his way now. He turned around and lowered himself down onto the throne. He put the Orb between his thighs and his fingers clenched around the Sceptre. He squared his shoulders and looked around majestically from the king's seat. Then he smiled, closed his eyes, and swayed his head peacefully to what must've been the flourish of "The Thieving Magpie".

That was the way the police found him a few seconds later. As a dozen heavily armed men rushed through the opening door and pointed their guns at him, Moriarty finally opened his eyes. John saw his lips move as he said something. He looked at Lestrade questioningly, and he grimly echoed his words.

"_No rush."_


	4. The Trial

John was standing in front of the living-room mirror, finishing the last touches on his tie. He pulled the knot a bit tighter around his neck, then he lowered his hands and looked at his own reflection. He paused for a second as he let it all in and prepared himself for the next few hours. He was nervous, there was no point in denying it. He felt an uneasy tremor in the pit of his stomach, but he thought that was perfectly normal given the situation. He picked up his jacket from the seat of his armchair next to him and put it on. As he straightened his collar, his eyes wandered away from his reflection, and his eyes met Sherlock's in the mirror. He was standing behind him, buttoning up his own jacket, but looking at him intently. John saw his own bottled up nervousness staring right back at him from the face of his friend.

By communicating only with looks, they both agreed it was time to go. Sherlock dashed down the stairs confidently, but John dropped a few steps behind as he was still fumbling with the buttons on his jacket. When he reached the bottom of the stairs and caught up with Sherlock, he was already standing at the closed front door. As John stepped next to him, Sherlock moved slightly aside, allowing him to reach for the handle. John frowned and looked at him with concern: it wasn't in his nature to give the leading position over to someone else willingly. However, now that he thought about it, Sherlock had been unnaturally quiet during the entire morning.

John could hear the muffled yells and shouts from the other side of the door. His stomach was tied in knots.

"Ready?"

Sherlock stood by the wall, his head slightly lowered, almost fading into the shadows. He took a second before he raised his eyes at John.

"Yes," he replied silently. There was no trace of mocking or sarcasm in his voice.

John closed his fingers around the doorknob, took a deep breath, and opened the door.

As he stepped over the threshold, the flashing cameras blinded him immediately, and the loud voices filled his head. One single policeman in a safety vest was trying to keep the crowd at bay with every bit of his strength and authority, but he was painfully outnumbered. John hurried down the steps and over to the parked car in front of the flat, pushing aside the microphones that were shoved into his face. Sherlock followed him closely. The reporters were everywhere, taking pictures, asking questions, trying to provoke a comment out of them. John motioned Sherlock to quickly get in the car as he himself walked around the vehicle to get in from the other side. When they both finally shut the doors behind themselves and slumped down into their seats, the police car sounded its sirens and raced off.

As they successfully managed to escape from the clutches of the media vultures, John relaxed a little. He looked out the window and watched how the buildings and people ran by. He remembered fondly of the days when their lives were the same. Ordinary. Being able to walk around the city freely, without anyone turning after them on the street… But not anymore. They were followed and escorted by police officers all the time – partly because they'd become too valuable to put their lives at risk, partly because of the nosy paparazzi and journalists. Although annoying, their presence was understandable. After the last six weeks, the pieces had finally started to fall into place: today was the first day of Moriarty's trial.

John looked at Sherlock sitting next to him. He was his main cause of worry, not the media or the imaginary assassins. They had talked the most crucial points over a million times already, but he still had to make sure that it stuck in that funny brain of his. Just one last time.

"Remember…" he started.

"Yes," Sherlock interrupted. John hated when he did that, but he decided he wouldn't give up just like that.

"Remember…"

"Yes."

John looked down for a second as he swallowed his surfacing anger. There was no point in getting annoyed, but it was hard to act rationally when Sherlock was driving him up the wall with his calm arrogance.

"Remember what they told you." This time the words left his lips so fast that Sherlock had no chance of butting in. "Don't try to be clever…"

"No."

"…and please, just keep it simple and brief."

Sherlock sighed.

"God forbid the star witness of the trial should come across as intelligent," he replied.

"Intelligent, fine. Let's give 'smart-arse' a wide berth."

There was a moment of silence.

"I'll just be myself."

"Are you even listening to me?!"

John still wasn't sure that it was a wise choice to use Sherlock as a star witness, and Sherlock's general behaviour didn't do much to reassure him. But there was no turning back now: the die had been cast. All John could do now was to sit and wait, and hope for the best.

A few minutes later the car arrived to the scene. John could feel his heart beating in his throat. The front entrance of the Old Bailey was swarming with reporters and their corresponding cameramen and boom operators. The news presenters were giving the freshest pieces of information to the audience, and summarising the events of the past few days in case by some miracle someone had missed it earlier. John sincerely doubted that there was even one person in London who hadn't heard about it. The newspapers called it "the crime of the century", and it received enormous attention, even on international levels. Right now, every pair of eyes were glued to the screen. The whole world was watching.

The police car took them to the back door but the situation there wasn't much better, either. There were significantly less cameras, but instead there were more freelance journalists who would've done anything for a comment. John and Sherlock quickly got out of the car and with a policeman's help they made their way through the crowd and got in the building at last.

As the thick wooden door closed behind them, it shut out every bit of noise from the outside, and it seemed like they had stepped into another world. Their footsteps echoed in the vast space, bouncing off the walls, breaking its solemn silence. The magnitude and scale of the building was both fascinating and authoritative. In different circumstances John would've liked to slow down a bit and get to know the place better, to look at the busts and paintings on the walls and take in its rich history, but now they had far more important things to do. They were briefly escorted to Court Ten where the trial was going to take place. When they stopped at the entrance, Sherlock and John exchanged one last look. It was time to say goodbye: John was to be seated amongst the audience in the public gallery, while Sherlock had to be called in separately as a witness. It was the last chance to give him an instruction or a piece of advice, and John was racking his brain for anything that would help him in the minutes yet to come, but there was nothing left to say. Sherlock looked at him knowingly and nodded. It was enough for John. He reciprocated the nod, then turned around and walked up the spiral staircase to the door that led to the gallery. He stepped into the courtroom and looked around.

There weren't that many people in the room, and John felt truly grateful for the law that forbid the presence of cameras during the trial. He saw that the jury had already taken their seats in the jury box: twelve men and women were sitting in two rows, arranging their notes, whispering to each other. The stenographer, the usher, the barristers in their white wigs, and some other people whose jobs were unclear to John, they had all taken their places below. Moriarty was sitting in the dock behind the barristers. He was cleanly shaved, his hair was perfectly styled and he was wearing a light grey suit with an elegant silver tie pin; all in all, he would've looked absolutely radiant… had it not been for his eyes. John had almost forgotten about them.

_Those eyes._

Moriarty only caught and held John's look for a split second, but it was enough to send a shiver down his spine. It was the same look as it had been that night at the pool. Those huge, unblinking eyes… those pupils that seemed to disappear into the deep blackness surrounding them... Giving off no light, no heat, no emotion, nothing. Just the dense darkness. Staring right into your soul, making you feel uneasy, vulnerable, _naked_…

John blinked and the moment had passed. Moriarty seemingly took no notice of John and turned away, and those murderous eyes were hiding behind half-dropped eyelids once again. Moriarty looked around impassively, chewing a piece of gum, like he didn't even care about where he was and what was going to happen to him.

John shook himself as he tried to banish those eyes from his mind, and took a seat in the gallery. For a couple of minutes nothing really happened. People went and came, everybody was slowly settling down. John took this chance to locate the defending barrister. The man was sitting behind his desk in a white wig, going through his notes one last time. He had to pay attention to him, John reminded himself. Sherlock had asked him to be his eyes and ears since the witness wasn't allowed to sit in the audience during the trial. Sherlock had a theory about Moriarty's strategy, and its correctness depended solely on his attorney's behaviour. John screwed up his eyes and tried to deduct as many things as possible from the man's appearance, but the clerk suddenly cried "rise" and everyone stood up, breaking John's concentration. An elderly and respectable-looking judge entered from a door at the side of the platform and took his seat behind the judge's bench. Everybody sat down and the trial commenced.

After the introductions and opening statements, the first witness was called. The security man who got knocked unconscious by Moriarty's mysterious spray took the oath and gave his testimony. It went down smoothly and without any surprises as he quoted back exactly the same thing as could've been seen on the surveillance tape, and nothing more.

As there weren't that many witnesses (partly because no-one paid any attention to Moriarty at the Tower, partly because they were too scared to testify against one of the greatest criminal in England), Sherlock's turn came surprisingly quickly. After the security tape had been shown and analysed, they called him in. He walked up to the witness's stand, keeping his eyes locked with Moriarty's all the way over to the box. He took the oath and the direct examination began. John took a deep breath. He really hoped that Sherlock could fight off his urges to be, well, himself.

The prosecuting barrister stood up and after a couple of routine questions she looked into her notes.

"'Consulting criminal'," she quoted and looked up at Sherlock.

"Yes," Sherlock replied.

"Your words. Can you expand on that answer?"

Sherlock took a second to think.

"James Moriarty is for hire," he said, and John felt the effort with which he was carefully trying to choose the best words. So far, so good, John thought. The barrister turned around and looked at Moriarty.

"A tradesman?"

"Yes," Sherlock answered.

"But not the sort who'd fix your heating."

"No, the sort who'd plant a bomb or stage an assassination, but I'm sure he'd make a pretty decent job of your boiler."

The crowd sniggered, and even the barrister stifled a smile.

"Would you describe him as…" she started her next question, but Sherlock interrupted her.

"Leading."

The barrister looked up from her notes, confused.

"What?"

"Can't do that. You're leading the witness." He turned his head towards the defending barrister sitting on the other side. "He'll object and the judge will uphold."

The judge rolled his eyes impatiently and sighed.

"Mr Holmes…"

"Ask me how. _How_ would I describe him? What opinion have I formed of him?" Sherlock looked at the prosecuting barrister and frowned in annoyance. "Do they not teach you this?"

"Mr Holmes, we are fine without your help," said the judge in a half-pleading tone. John was looking at Sherlock with such an angry and reproachful expression that it was a miracle it didn't left a smouldering hole in Sherlock's temple. Probably the only thing that saved him was the sound of wood creaking behind John, causing him to look away. He whipped around to the noise, but it just turned out to be a young woman who had arrived late and was now trying to take a seat in the back row with attracting as little attention as possible. As she sat down, John turned his attention back to Sherlock, who still hadn't caught on fire, despite of his best efforts.

"_How_ would you describe this man – his character?" asked the barrister, amending her question to Sherlock's suggestion. Sherlock raised his eyes from her and looked at Moriarty.

"First mistake," he said slowly, dropping his voice. "James Moriarty isn't a man at all. He's a _spider. _A spider at the centre of a web… a criminal web with a thousand threads and he knows precisely how each and every single one of them dances."

The room fell so silent that John could've heard a pin drop. Everyone stared at Sherlock, and it seemed like the whole room forgot to even breathe for a moment. Finally the prosecuting barrister broke the silence. She cleared her throat as she tried to recover from the unexpected answer, and looked into her notes.

"And how long…"

Sherlock closed his eyes in exasperation.

"No, no, no. Don't do that. That's really not a very good question."

The spell broke and the judge huffed angrily.

"Mr Holmes!"

"How long have I known him?" Sherlock finished the barrister's question, and looked at her abjectly. "Not really your best line of inquiry. We met twice, five minutes in total. I pulled a gun, he tried to blow me up. I felt we had a special something," he added sarcastically. A silent murmur swept through the room. Moriarty raised his eyebrows and a coy smile spread across his face.

"Miss Sorrel," thundered the judge at the barrister over the hushed voices, „are you seriously claiming this man is an expert, after knowing the accused for just _five minutes_?"

The barrister opened her mouth for an answer but Sherlock beat her to it once more.

"Two minutes would have made me an expert," he said. "Five was ample."

"Mr. Holmes, that's a matter for the jury."

"Oh, really?"

John sighed and raised his hand to his temple in resignation. He blamed himself, really. He should've had known better by now.

Sherlock took a long, hard look at the jury.

"One librarian, two teachers…" he started his analysis, scanning the twelve people sitting across the room. "Two high-pressure jobs, probably the City… the foreman's a medical secretary, trained abroad judging by her shorthand…"

The judge's eyes widened in disbelief.

"Mr Holmes!"

Sherlock couldn't have been bothered.

"Seven are married and two are having an affair… with each other, it would seem! Oh, and they've just had tea and biscuits." He turned to the judge. "Would you like to know who ate the wafer?"

The jurors shuffled in their seats uncomfortably, and it was evident from their body language that Sherlock got everything right. John, however, wasn't impressed, and neither was the judge.

"Mr Holmes, you've been called here to answer Miss Sorrel's questions, not to give us a display of your intellectual prowess!"

Sherlock's mouth twitched into a proud smile at the compliment.

"Keep your answers brief and to the point. Anything else will be treated as contempt," continued the judge, his voice rising. "Do you think you could survive for just a few minutes _without showing off?!_"

The last words echoed in the room. Sherlock locked eyes with the judge for a second. When he finally took a deep breath and opened his mouth for an answer, John closed his eyes in defeat.


	5. Passing the Sentence

As two police officers escorted Sherlock out of the room a minute later, he shot one smug, satisfied look at John. It seemed like he was actually very proud of his little stunt – as if he was playing a game called „I bet I could get the judge so angry that he would throw me in jail". Well, he won. The judge was foaming with rage as he ordered the guards to take him away under the charge of contempt. John just quietly shook his head in resignation.

It turned out, however, that life in the courtroom could easily go on without Sherlock. It was late in the afternoon when the trial finally came to an end, and John had sat through the whole thing. He didn't even try to rush to Sherlock's aid. He made his own bed, he thought, and maybe a couple of hours spent in a cell would teach him to keep his mouth shut once in a while. Besides, he couldn't have been Sherlock's eyes and ears if he had left the courtroom, could he? He even played with the thought of leaving Sherlock in there for a whole night to teach him a lesson, but after the court had adjourned he soon found himself at the custody officer's desk, paying the fine and waiting for his friend. He didn't have to wait long: within a few minutes a door opened and a policeman entered with Sherlock behind him. The guard led him to the desk, then left him to deal with the paperworks and collect his personal belongings. John felt like a parent who had to pick up his misbehaving kid from after-school detention. He leaned back on the desk with folded arms, shaking his head disapprovingly as Sherlock signed the release forms. The last few hours spent behind bars didn't seem to faze him at all, which made John even more displeased.

"What did I say? I said 'don't get clever'."

"I can't just turn it on and off like a tap."

Sherlock signed one last paper and took a plastic bag from the custody officer. He opened it, pulled out his phone and put it in his breast pocket.

"Well?" he asked, looking at John. John frowned. He felt like Sherlock was continuing a conversation which he hadn't been part of to begin with.

"Well what?"

Sherlock turned away from the officer without saying as much as a "thank you" and headed for the exit. John followed him.

"You were there for the whole thing," Sherlock said while he continued fishing out his wallet and keys from the little bag. "Up at the gallery, start to finish."

The penny dropped and John immediately knew what Sherlock was referring to. Even though he was still angry with him, he hadn't forgotten about the defending barrister.

"Like you said it would be," he answered. "Sat on his backside, never even stirred."

Sherlock took a moment to process this new information.

"Moriarty's not mounting any defence," he concluded finally and pushed the back door open. The streets outside were dark and empty. The sun was already well below the horizon and the street lights were lit – John just realised that they had spent their whole day in the building. As he looked down the street, he had to be at least a little grateful to Sherlock. If he hadn't offended the judge, he wouldn't have been thrown in jail, John wouldn't have had to bail him out, they wouldn't have had to spend an extra half an hour indoors, and consequently they wouldn't have managed to evade the journalists. The reporters probably didn't realise there was anyone else left in the Old Bailey, and by the time John and Sherlock stepped outside, they had already disappeared from the street. John didn't mind in the least that they'd been forgotten. Sherlock quickly hailed down a cab and soon they were on their way home. The ride went by in total silence. They were both too lost in thought to talk; besides, anybody could've been listening in on their conversation. John had learnt not to trust a stranger – especially not a cabbie.

John felt himself returning to normal as they arrived to 221 Baker Street. The familiar street, the black wrought-iron fence running along the wall, Speedy's Cafe downstairs – he knew this place like the back of his own hand. Even though their lives had changed dramatically, this corner of London was a constant point they could always rely on. It was home. As they walked up the stairs to the flat and stepped into their living-room, John felt safe at last.

Although the long day had drained his energy completely and he wanted nothing more than a good night's sleep, the adrenaline and the unanswered questions still kept his mind running. He had been trying to put the pieces together in the cab, but it was of no use. However, he was sure that if he could pick Sherlock's mind, he could get some answers at last.

"Bank of England, Tower of London, Pentonville," he said to get the discussion started. "Three of the most secure places in the country and six weeks ago Moriarty breaks in, no one knows how or why."

Sherlock was already pacing up and down the room with his fingers put together in front of his mouth. John got tired just by watching him so he slumped down into his armchair.

"All we know is…"

"…he ended up in custody," Sherlock finished his sentence. He suddenly stopped and looked at him pointedly. John took a deep breath. He wanted answers, sure, but he was too exhausted to play this game again.

"Don't… do that."

Sherlock's look lost its intensity in a second and it turned into a confused frown.

"Do what?"

"The look."

"Look?"

"You're doing the look again."

"Well, I can't see it, can I?"

John gestured at the mirror on the wall impatiently. Sherlock turned his head and looked at his own reflection.

"It's my face," he said, puzzled.

"Yes, and it's doing a thing," said John. "You're doing a _'we both know what's really going on here'_ face."

"But we do!"

"No, _I _don't, which is why I find _'the face'_ so annoying."

Sherlock sighed.

"If Moriarty wanted the Jewels, he'd have them; if he wanted those prisoners free, they'd be out in the streets. The only reason he's still in the prison cell right now is because he _chose to be there. _Somehow this is part of his scheme."

John fell silent. He didn't have a single doubt that Sherlock's train of thought was correct. Now that he'd heard it, he didn't even know how it hadn't occured to him before. It was so obvious. Everything Moriarty did, he did it for a reason. He broke into the Tower of London effortlessly and laid his hands on the Crown Jewels, but the great criminal mastermind didn't think of an escape plan? It didn't make any sense. And he didn't even try to steal the Jewels – he just used them to… to what? To taunt the nation, to show his strength, that he could do anything? Was this all just a power play, like the game that Irene Adler had played? Even if it was, John still couldn't see what was the point in all this. Everyone in England knew what Moriarty was capable of, but how was that supposed to help him in prison?

John felt that his mind had reached an impasse. He was stumped. And as he looked at Sherlock, it was evident that he wasn't the only one.

Sadly, John was unable to enjoy his much desired sleep as next morning the trial continued. He was in no way obliged to attend but he wanted to see the case through to the very end. He took his usual seat up in the gallery, but this time Sherlock didn't go with him – they had agreed it was best if he'd stayed at home and kept out of trouble. The judge probably wouldn't have been too happy to see him there, anyway.

As the prosecution didn't have any more witnesses, now it was Moriarty's turn to defend himself. John had no idea how he was going to do that, what kind of evidence he could show the jury to convince them of his innocence, but he was sure that Moriarty wasn't going to go down without a fight. His attorney didn't even try to cross-examine the guard's or Sherlock's testimonies the other day, but he must've had some tricks up in his sleeve. An unexpected witness, perhaps? Whatever the case might be, John prepared himself for a long and hard day in the courtroom.

"Mr Crayhill, can we have your first witness?"

Moriarty's attorney stood up and raised his eyes at the judge. He seemed oddly reluctant to reply.

"Your Honour… we're not calling any witnesses."

Gasps of shock filled the room. John leaned forward. He couldn't believe his ears.

"I don't understand," the judge frowned. "You've entered a plea of not guilty."

"Nevertheless, my client is offering no evidence." The barrister sighed helplessly. "The defence… rests."

John didn't understand. Was this Moriarty's strategy? With his resources and connections he surely could've got someone to prove his innocence one way or another. Instead, he chose to do nothing. He sat through his own trial without uttering a single word. The evidence against him was overwhelming – if he didn't even try to defend himself, he would surely go to jail for a long time. What was he thinking?

As the barrister sat down, defeated, Moriarty slowly turned around and looked right up at John. Their eyes met. Moriarty looked at him like a kid who'd just broken the neighbour's window again. "Oh-oh, now I'm in trouble," said the grimace. Then a huge grin spread across his face, and chewing his gum tauntingly he turned back towards the judge. John stared at him with unveiled confusion and hatred in his eyes. It was infuriating to think that seemingly everything was going according to Moriarty's plan and they were absolutely clueless about what it was exactly. John felt like they were all just pawns in a great game of chess that Moriarty and Sherlock had been playing. And now it was Moriarty's turn.

Since there was no point in continuing the trial, the court adjourned for the day. The sun set and the sun rose, and the next morning everyone was back in the courtroom again. The last day of the trial. It was time for the jury to come to a decision and for the judge to pass the sentence. Usually this process took days, sometimes even weeks, but this case was so clear-cut that there was no need for more time. John was sitting on the edge of his seat. The judge asked Moriarty to stand up, and he obeyed.

"Ladies and gentlemen of the jury," the judge started his summarising speech. "James Moriarty stands accused of several counts of attempted burglary, crimes which – if he's found guilty – will elicit a very long custodial sentence… and yet, his legal team has chosen to offer no evidence whatsoever to support their plea." He shook his head unbelievingly. "I find myself in the unusual position of recommending a verdict wholeheartedly. You must find him guilty!"

John took a deep breath. Everything was in the jury's hands now. The judge ordered a break while the twelve men and women were escorted into a private room to make their final decision. John went down to the hallway for the time being and sat on a beautifully polished, dark, wooden bench. It was nice there: the solemn silence acted soothingly on his mind. He wondered how long it would take for the jurors to decide. And when Moriarty was finally behind bars, what kind of damage would he be capable of doing? What was his endgame? Sherlock had said that it was all part of his plan, but what kind of plan involves him sitting in prison?

However hard he tried to think, he couldn't come up with anything useful. His racing mind affected his body, too, making him unable to stay in one place. Even as he was sitting, he noticed his left leg jumping restlessly and his fingers tapping on his thigh in frustration.

Suddenly the echo of quick footsteps broke the silence. John looked around and saw the clerk to the court hurrying back, carrying his white wig in his hand.

"They're coming back," he said to John as he passed him. John frowned and looked at his watch.

"That's… six minutes."

The clerk stopped at the door and turned back to John.

"Surprised it took them that long, to be honest," he said and put on his wig. "There's a queue for the loo." Then he disappeared into the courtroom.

John took a second to collect his thoughts, then hurried up the stairs to the gallery and took his seat. As everyone finally settled down in the courtroom, the clerk rose. Complete silence spread across the room. John didn't even dare to breathe – he didn't want to risk missing even one word.

„Have you reached a verdict on which you all agree?" the clerk addressed the jurors.

The forewoman slowly got to her feet in the front row and cleared her throat.


	6. The Diogenes Club

„_Not guilty!_ They found him _not guilty_! No defence, and Moriarty's walked free!"

John heard Sherlock's breathing stop short on the other end of the line, but there was no reply.

„Sherlock, are you listening?!" John snapped. „He's out! You _know_ he'll be coming after you! Sherlock…"

Beep-beep-beep. Sherlock hung up the phone.

John was walking along the outside wall of the Old Bailey, looking for a cab with his phone in his hand. He still couldn't believe what had just happened. The jury had acquitted Moriarty of all of his crimes unanimously. It was outrageous. The judge was absolutely beside himself but there was nothing he could do about it: once the jury made their decision, it was set in stone. Moriarty was escorted out of the courtroom with a confident smile on his face amongst the disapproving jeers and shouts. He didn't seem the least shocked by this unexpected turn of events. John wanted to get out of the building and head home as soon as possible, but he was forced to stay back for a couple of minutes because it was impossible to take even one step through the thick crowd of journalists swarming by the entrance. In the end, he finally managed to sneak out undetected and the first thing he did was to call Sherlock.

He had no idea what had happened to Sherlock that made him hang up, but he was one hundred percent sure that he was next on Moriarty's list. The one and only thought on his mind was to get home as fast as he could, but the fact that he was unable to find a cab anywhere just made matters worse. John was furious. At any other time the city was teeming with cabs, but now when he really needed it there was none in sight. He decided to turn onto Newgate Street because he thought he might have a bigger chance of finding one there, but instead he ended up practically running as far as the St Paul's tube station three blocks away without any luck. He was already calculating the tube's journey time and thinking about taking the less scenic route underground when at last he spotted a cab. He ran up to it and hailed it down, then jumped in, and fifteen minutes later they came to a halt in front of 221 Baker Street. John hastily paid the driver and rushed upstairs – only to find Sherlock sitting in his armchair with his violin in his lap, plucking away at the strings peacefully and unharmed.

John looked around the room panting, half-expecting to see Moriarty standing in the corner, but there was no one there. The flat was quiet and warm, just as always.

John had spent the entire day – or more accurately what was left of it – alternating between pacing up and down in front of Sherlock and sitting in his armchair, desperately trying to put the pieces together. He was unable to decipher Sherlock's attitude to the news. He just sat in his armchair and hardly ever replied to John's ramblings. John suspected that he knew something that he didn't want to share with him, and that made him even more angry and confused. After a whole afternoon of unsuccessful interrogation, however, John finally admitted defeat and resolved to lay off the subject until Sherlock decided to participate actively in the conversation.

Almost two months had gone by uneventfully. Although the media couldn't get enough of Moriarty's acquittal and they'd featured his story in every single magazine and newspaper for weeks, the man himself seemed to have disappeared off the face of the Earth. As the reporters couldn't get an interview out of him or his attorney, they turned their attention towards Sherlock instead. In the first few days the journalists had literally camped out on their doorstep in a desperate attempt to get a comment out of them, but their efforts were futile. Sherlock would've been absolutely fine with not leaving the house for a longer period of time, but John and Mrs Hudson had slowly become properly annoyed by their imprisonment. The lack of comments and facts didn't stop the people from talking, on the contrary: Sherlock had quickly become one of the most famous and talked-about men in England. People had been trying to calculate his next move, guessing his thoughts, motives, and questioning his role in the whole story. John sometimes thought it would've been best to organise a public press conference and answer all the questions in order to nip the speculations in the bud, but Sherlock didn't say anything, not even to him. Whatever was on his mind, whatever piece of information he was holding back from John, it must've been crucial to keep it to himself, and John was smarter than to keep bugging him about it.

Finally, the day had come when „The Trial of the Century" wasn't part of the evening news, and Moriarty wasn't grinning from the pages of every magazine anymore. The journalists had slowly crawled back to their offices, and one day John realised that during the time he'd gone to do the shopping, he hadn't been insulted or disturbed by anyone. The public had moved on at last, as they always do in the end.

It was a chilly Thursday morning. Ever since they'd become attractions, John liked to take care of things early in the morning, when the streets were still empty. Even though nobody marked him anymore, he kept true to this newfound habit. Sherlock was still locked away in his bedroom when John stepped outside and breathed in the fresh air. He decided not to take a cab but to walk instead, so he pulled his jacket closer around himself and headed down the street. He deeply appreciated the silence and the cold.

By the time he'd arrived to the cashpoint, however, the streets had slowly started to buzz with life. More and more people appeared, going for a breakfast, hurrying to work. John stopped in front of the machine, got his credit card out of his wallet and put it in. His movements were completely automatic. He entered his PIN code without thinking and selected „cash withdrawal" on the interactive screen. This was his usual cashpoint, and he'd done this transaction so many times at that exact spot that it was like brushing his teeth. Therefore, when the machine suddenly displayed the unusual words: „_There is a problem with your card. Please wait_", he was completely thrown off balance. He had to read it a few times before its meaning could register. Once it did, he sighed. At times like this he truly hated technology.

After a few seconds, the message changed:

„_Thank you for your patience…_ John."

John frowned. Was it normal for a cashpoint to call him by his name…? He didn't think so. A bad feeling came over him, and instinctively he turned around. An ominous, elegant black car with tinted windows silently pulled up to the sidewalk behind him and stopped. This wasn't the first time John'd seen this car. He rolled his eyes in defeat as he took his credit card from the machine and got in.

There was no one in the car except himself and the driver, who didn't utter a word during the entire ride. John realised unhappily that this time he wasn't given a pretty female companion to escort him. Maybe Mycroft thought he had grown up to the task and no longer needed a babysitter.

The car finally pulled up in front of a beautiful white building in a secluded street. John got out and walked up the steps to the entrance. „The Diogenes Club", said the brass plaque on the polished wooden door. John pushed the door open without hesitation.

He walked along a long corridor, peeping into the empty rooms that opened from the hallway. The building was like a haunted house – the old, heavy walls felt like they were crushing him and the unearthly quietness made him uneasy. Only his footsteps broke the silence. He looked into another room as he passed by it, but he immediately slowed down and backed up. The spacious room wasn't empty like the others: John saw several respectable-looking, elderly gentlemen sitting in leather armchairs, reading their newspapers. He decided to go in and ask for directions.

John stepped through the threshold, and the thick carpet muffled the sound of his footsteps at once. He looked around. The perfectly polished, thick wooden walls and the ornate white ceiling gave the impression of a wealthy, yet still modest elegance. A marble fireplace stood coldly and empty in the middle. There were several small, round tables scattered across the room at a safe distance from each other, occupied by the reading gentlemen. John ventured further into the room, but when he reached its middle he stopped. He felt like an intruder; an outsider who had no business at that place. But as he stood there, nobody marked him and nobody said a word.

As he realised that the gentlemen weren't likely to initiate a conversation, he stepped closer to one of them.

„Uhm… excuse me, I'm looking for Mycroft Holmes. Would you happen to know if he's around at all?"

The elderly man didn't raise his eyes, but out of nowhere deep shock appeared on his face and John could see that his eyes were scanning the room in great distress. John frowned.

„Can you not hear me?"

A man at another table slowly turned around to see what was happening, but he didn't intervene. The old man in front of John finally looked up, but instead of giving him an answer, he just gaped silently like a fish out of water. John was actually scared that the man's bulging eyes would pop out of his skull and he would have a heart attack, so he decided it would be best to back down.

„Yes, all right," he said, trying to calm the old man, and looked around the room. „Anyone?" The other gentlemen averted their eyes immediately and continued reading their newspapers in total silence. John had no intention of giving up. „Anyone at all know where Mycroft Holmes is?" he persisted. „I've been asked to meet him here."

Still no answer. The old man behind John seemed to have recovered from the shock, or at least he was well enough to hold up his walking cane and push a small button on the wall repeatedly with its end. In the distance a bell rang. John took no notice of it.

„No takers? Right." John was starting to lose his self-control. „Am I invisible? Can you actually see me?!"

At that moment two younger men wearing long dress coats entered the room and headed straight towards John.

„Ah, thanks, gents," sighed John in relief. Finally, he was being taken care of. „I've been asked to meet Mycroft Holm..."

The two men suddenly closed in on him and grabbed his arms rudely from both sides. As John looked them up and down, he noticed that they were wearing spotless white gloves and overshoes.

„Hey, what the…"

John felt a hand swinging over his mouth to shut him up and the two men started to literally drag him out of the room. John tried to shout and fight, but it was no use – the men were younger and stronger than him, and they kept him in their grip tightly.

They hauled him through a long hallway until they reached another room. It seemed to be much brighter and less ominous than the one occupied by the league of the silent gentlemen. It had more or less the same size, but there was only one, large table at the back and two armchairs in the middle, facing each other. The interior was clearly of the same design than the rest of the house. As they stepped over the threshold, John finally felt the men's grips loosening on his limbs, and the gloved palm separated from his mouth. Before he could say anything, however, they had already disappeared and closed the door firmly behind themselves.

„Traditions, John," he heard suddenly a voice behind him which made him whip around. Mycroft was standing in the back of the room with his back turned towards him, pouring himself a dark amber drink from a crystal decanter. „Our traditions define us."

„So total silence is traditional, is it?" asked John angrily as he managed to collect himself. „You can't even say 'pass the sugar'?"

„Three-quarters of the diplomatic service and half the government front bench all sharing one tea trolley. It's for the best, believe me," replied Mycroft and put the crystal cork back into the bottle. A humourless smile appeared on his face as he turned around and walked towards John with the glass in his hand. „They don't want a repeat of 1972. But we can talk in here."

John walked up to the small coffee table by the armchairs and picked up The Sun's latest issue lying there.

„You read this stuff?" he asked Mycroft.

„Caught my eye. Saturday; they're doing a big exposé."

John sat down in one of the armchairs and looked at the front page:

_SHERLOCK: THE SHOCKING TRUTH – Close Friend Richard Brook Tells All_

_Super-sleuth Sherlock Holmes has today been exposed as a fraud in a revelation that will shock his newfound base of adoring fans._

_Out-of-work actor Richard Brook revealed exclusively to THE SUN that he was hired by Holmes in an elaborate deception to fool the British public into believing that Holmes had above-average 'detective skills'._

John had no stomach to read the rest of the teaser. He shook his head and looked at the writer. The name Kitty Riley didn't say anything to him – she must've been an unknown, ambitious journalist who wanted to get noticed at any costs. Her picture, however, was oddly familiar: a young, fairly pretty girl whose cold, calculating eyes vibrated even through the black and white picture.

„I'd love to know where she got her information."

„Someone called Brook," Mycroft answered. „Recognise the name?"

John lowered the paper and looked up at Mycroft.

„School friend, maybe?"

Mycroft let out sarcastic little laugh.

„Of Sherlock's?" he chuckled, then walked up to the large writing table that dominated the right side of the room. „But that's not why I asked you here."

He returned to John with a handful of paper folders in his arms, and without sitting down he handed one of them to him. John opened the file and looked at the photograph on the top page.

„Who's that?" he asked.

„Don't know him?"

„No."

Mycroft looked at him closely.

„Never seen his face before?"

John searched the unknown man's face for familiar features, but there was none. He looked perfectly ordinary. John breathed out a clueless puff of air.

„He's taken a flat in Baker Street, two doors down from you," said Mycroft, circling around the armchairs like a vulture above his prey.

„Hmm, I was thinking of doing a drinks thing with the neighbours," answered John without looking up. Mycroft didn't appreciate the comment.

„Not sure you'll want to," he said dead seriously and nodded at the file. „Sulejmani. Albanian hit squad. Expertly-trained killer living less than twenty feet from your front door."

„It's a great location. Jubilee line's handy."

„John…"

John closed the folder and looked up.

„What's it got to do with me?"

Mycroft walked over and handed him another file.

„Dyachenko, Ludmilla," he said and finally took the seat opposite John. John groaned reluctantly as he opened the next folder, but the photo inside made him frown. Those dark eyes, that slicked down hair… The woman's hard features seemed to ring a bell in his subconscious.

„Actually, I think I have seen her."

„Russian killer," said Mycroft. „She's taken the flat opposite."

John started to feel uneasy. This was clearly no laughing matter.

„Okay… I'm sensing a pattern here."

Mycroft leaned forward and handed him the rest of the files.

„In fact, four top international assassins relocate to within spitting distance of two hundred and twenty-one B."

John looked at the two photos inside. Both of them were paparazzi shots of men walking on the streets. They could've been anybody: they didn't look particularily menacing or threatening. John could've walked right past them a million times already.

„Anything you care to share with me?" John heard Mycroft's voice and he looked up.

„I'm moving?"

Mycroft smiled at John unamusedly and narrowed his eyes.

„It's not hard to guess the common denominator, is it?"

„You think it's Moriarty?"

Mycroft shot John an „isn't it obvious"-look. John had seen this exact look far too many times on the face of the other Holmes brother to recognise it immediately.

„He promised Sherlock he'd come back," said Mycroft.

„If this was Moriarty, we'd be dead already," argued John.

„If not Moriarty, then who?"

John took a moment. He felt like a piece of the puzzle was still missing. If this was about Sherlock – why was _he _here?

„Why don't you talk to Sherlock if you're so concerned about him?"

John immediately knew that he'd asked the right question as Mycroft averted his eyes and started to play with the glass on the coffee table beside him. John sighed wearily and shook his head.

„Oh God, don't tell me."

„Too much history between us, John. Old scores, resentments."

„Nicked all his Smurfs? Broke his Action Man?"

Mycroft glowered at John, but he couldn't help but laugh. If this really were a matter of life and death, Mycroft surely would've got over his issues with his own brother in order to warn him. This must've been just another one of his power plays, making John dance according to his wishes. He had no intention of being a pawn anymore. He picked up the files from his lap and slammed them on the table.

„Finished."

„We both know what's coming, John," he heard Mycroft's voice behind him as he headed for the door. John stopped with his back still turned towards him. „Moriarty is obsessed. He's sworn to destroy his only rival."

John turned around and locked eyes with Mycroft.

„So you want me to watch out for your brother… because he won't accept your help."

„If it's not too much trouble."

John had held Mycroft's gaze for a couple of moments before he turned on his heels without an answer and walked out of the room. He didn't know what to do, and he had no idea whether to take Mycroft's threats seriously or not. Moriarty knew where they lived, he had every opportunity to kill them over the past few months, and yet they were still there. It didn't make any sense. Why would he hire assassins if he didn't want them dead? …Or was it just a surveillance? But _why?_

As the cab pulled up in Baker Street (as apparently Mycroft's all-pervasive authority didn't cover a ride home), John decided to let Sherlock know about his secret meeting with Mycroft. Maybe he could make some sense out of it. He got out of the cab and walked across the street to the flat, but for the first time since they'd moved in he wasn't comforted by the familiar environment. He felt like he was being watched. Even Baker Street, that little corner of safe haven had been invaded. He kept looking over his shoulder, scanning everyone around him, expecting to catch a deadly glance or a suspicious movement. But nothing happened – the people went on with their businesses, apparently taking no notice of John.

As he finally reached the front door unscathed but with slightly shaken nerves, he spotted something on the doorstep. He bent down and picked it up. It was a perfectly ordinary brown envelope, but as John turned it around in his fingers, he saw that it was completely blank. No sender, no address, no stamp; just an old-fashioned, red wax seal that kept the envelope tightly shut. It must've been something really important, John thought, as nobody used wax seal nowadays. It became the privilige of the higher class people who wrote on strictly official business. John slid his index finger underneath the fold of the envelope and with a swift motion he tore it up. He held out his right hand immediately as he saw something falling onto the pavement. He caught some of it in his palm and held it up in front of himself.

_Breadcrumbs._

_What the hell…?_

„'Scuse, mate."

John turned around, still quite confused. At first he couldn't even register anything apart from a huge yellow ladder inches away from his face. He had to take a second to realise that the ladder was carried by a tattooed, bald-headed handyman, who was trying to get into the house. He must've been doing some work for Mrs Hudson, at least he would've if John hadn't been standing in the way. So he stepped aside and let the man in, then stuffed the envelope and the crumbs in his pocket and followed him inside.

John rushed up the stairs and walked through the open door into their living room. Never mind the Diogenes Club; he could hardly wait to tell Sherlock about the strange parcel he'd found on their doorstep.

„Sherlock, something weird…"

The rest of the sentence had never come to light; John stopped dead in his tracks as he noticed the people in the room. Lestrade and Donovan were standing in the middle, both holding files in their hands, looking very serious. Sherlock was pacing up and down between them.

Something has happened.

„What's going on?" John asked. All faces turned towards him, and Sherlock answered with a single word:

„Kidnapping."


End file.
